My childhood friend spoke to me before I left. It's too late to go back, she seems to think otherwise. I curse my very breathing, I am cursed. Yet she seems to think the curse can be broken. I told her I was already dead. I have been dead for years. Inside. I can never go back to being the untroubled boy. The comradery of being part of something in my father's company. Peaceful breaks spent on the farm, The sweet smell of Mother's baking. The attraction I felt towards that girl over yonder. You cannot lust after this maiden of the Mark. And she wanted me to stay the night. To say she was worried was an understatement. To speak to her again was my greatest fear. The fear that she would pry too deeply. That I would let something slip about my reason for leaving more than intended. I had betrayed my pain, how I loathe the questioning. I had sobbed, I could not hold it in. You cannot go back. No, banish the thought.
At the grave of the deceased I lay a lavender. How I laughed at the sight of that ridiculous tree. In the sunshine, strange as it was for this time of year it was almost as if I felt her presence.
I could stay here. I know she can hear me. From beyond the realm of the living. I hope my visit brought her some peace. I never want to leave this bright pink tree. But I must go on. I cannot leave my prisoner for too long.
